The trees are like old broomsticks,
Wiry and gnarled as straw,
Propped against a doorway of sky.
A tire swing lazily hangs from a tree
By the woods,
Cutting into the snow
Which blocks the path of the tire
Longing to arc through summer skies,
Alongside barefoot, sunburnt children.
Pine trees, leaves like emerald scarves,
Brush the houses, fairytale cottages, that look
Like they’re wearing lace mantillas,
Ice-tasseled and snow-bedecked
As the roofs are,
Resembling beaded lampshades
Looming over side tables
Like watchful dancers in the wings,
Listening for their cue.
At the barn by the sugar house,
The cows’ backs look inkspilled,
Marbled patches like composition journal covers,
Ebony notes typewritten on a sheaf
Of pink- and lilac-banded sky,
The snow they stand on white
As the milk they yield.
Sidling around them stealthily as cats
Is the snow, flour sifted
In the hands of the wind,
Sweeping away from the homes
Where it has waited,
Trailing off from the farms,
Across the empty fields,
A traveler as lonesome as dust
On a deserted road,
Though in the patchwork, heart-sewn
Quilt of countryside,
Is a reflection of what’s inside;
This is where love lies,
Where you take note,
Knowing this
Is how you’d describe home.
photo credit: Tomasz Suliga, Unsplash
Farmer-ish 